Tainted
by storylover18
Summary: Sherlock has injured himself but he hates hospitals. So what does he do? He hides it, of course. At least, he tries to but Dr. Watson has always been the best and Sherlock's secret is soon found out. Now John must patch Sherlock up because he still refuses to go to hospital. Hurt/comfort - not slash, just friendship.
1. Hide & Seek

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**I am on fire … this is great! _Without_ a prompt, I have found another story to share with you amazing people =) And this one isn't a repeat of one I've done for another fandom or even anything similar to what I've done for Sherlock. I don't expect it to be more than 3 chapters … but that's a few days off. I hope you enjoy this first chapter! Oh, and in case you're squeamish, it's not _super_ graphic but there is mentions of blood and pus … you've been warned! **

"You okay?" John glanced sideways at the consulting detective. They were sitting in an office, waiting for a client. Sherlock was facing straight forward, eyes locked on the view outside of the window.

"Fine." Sherlock's answer was instinct.

John didn't answer but studied his friend, concerned. He had never seen Sherlock so pale before, dark eyes accented by half-moon crescents under them. However, John knew Sherlock was a grown man and could take care of himself – more or less – and didn't press the issue any further.

* * *

That evening, John and Sherlock were back in 221B, exhausted. They had been all over London and, of course, it had been pouring rain for most of the day. They had gotten home, made dinner, and sat down to eat quietly. Sitting across from each other at the table, John watched Sherlock eat slowly.

"Are you sure you're okay?" John asked after having a mental debate if he should.

"Would you stop asking me that, please?" Sherlock exclaimed, looking up.

"I'm sorry." John said, eyebrows knit together. "You look like crap, though."

"I am fine." Sherlock emphasized each word.

"Alright." John said, backing down. Inside, however, he decided to keep an eye on the detective.

After the dishes had been washed, John went for a shower and Sherlock, waiting till he had gone upstairs to dress, locked himself into the bathroom. He leaned against the closed door and took a deep breath before advancing to the sink, rolling up his right sleeve. Sherlock peeled away the large gauze bandage, wincing as the tape pulled at his skin. The long gash along his forearm was oozing blood and pus and the once-white bandage was now stained a dark brown colour. It was a good thing Sherlock had been wearing a black shirt; the bandage was soaked all the way through. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, somewhat bothered by the fact that his own wound disgusted him so much.

Pressing a tissue to his arm, Sherlock dug around under the sink for the hydrogen peroxide. He opened the bottle and held his arm over the sink, generously pouring the liquid over it. The moment it made contact, the clear liquid turned to white foam and dripped into the sink. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock found another strip of gauze and taped it into place before cleaning the sink. He didn't want John to know about his wound, although he could tell the doctor was becoming concerned. Sherlock's arm had been bleeding and oozing for almost a week now and showed no signs of getting better. Sherlock was beginning to feel ill as a result of infection and he was pretty sure he was running a temperature. Doing one last rinse of the sink, Sherlock left the bathroom and went into the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asked John, who was watching some reality show on the telly.

"Thanks." John answered without taking his eyes off the screen. Sherlock watched the kettle boil, statically staring as the water bubbles rose, before fixing two cups of tea. He carried them into the living room.

"Here." Sherlock set John's cup on the end table before taking his seat, sipping his tea precautiously.

"Thanks." John picked up his cup and then turned to Sherlock.

"You're going to watch?"

"Do you mind?"

"No, of course not." John answered. "But you hate the telly I watch. Anytime it's on, you start to play your violin."

"I don't do that, do I?" Sherlock feigned innocence. Of course, he knew perfectly well that he did just that – he hated reality telly. John was still watching him over the edge of his tea cup.

"I'll be good, I promise." Sherlock said, trying to get John's gaze off of him. It made him squirm uneasily. Normally, he didn't have a problem not sharing things with John – which had a tendency to drive John crazy during their cases – but this was one thing he knew he should be telling John about. He didn't want to, though, because he knew John would drag him to hospital, where they would most likely admit him to keep him under observation due to the infection, plus they would stitch up the long cut, which meant making appointments to go back to get the stitches removed. Overall, it wasn't worth the hassle it would cause.

Sherlock tried to block out the noise coming from the telly – in all honesty, he wished he could pick up his violin and bow and begin making music to drown out the noise but he knew if he did, the cut was prone to start bleeding more heavily. Instead, feeling tired, Sherlock finished his cup of tea and stood up, wordlessly heading for bed.

Before Sherlock saw it coming, John reached up and caught him by the arm. Sherlock gasped, dropping his tea cup. It shattered into a million pieces but all Sherlock could think about was the intense pain shooting up from his arm. John hadn't missed Sherlock's audible gasp and had stood up immediately.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, trying to pass it off. He forced a smile.

"Nothing, I'm fine. You just startled me."

"I'm not buying it." John said. "Sit."

John pointed to the chair and Sherlock sat, vainly trying to get control of the throbbing in his arm. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough for the bitter taste of blood to fill his mouth. John stood before him, arms crossed.

"What's wrong, Sherlock? I know something is bothering you. Is it the case? Was there something that didn't fit together?"

"No, the case works perfectly." Sherlock said, somewhat offended. How dare John imply that he ever solve a case incorrectly.

"Then what is it, Sherlock? You look exhausted and you haven't played your violin in almost a week … you're not using, again?"

John's eyes grew, horrified by the realization of the possibility.

"You need to tell me, Sherlock, and we can help you. It's not too late to get clean again. Mycroft and I, and Mrs. Hudson, we will all - "

"John." Sherlock interrupted. "I'm not using again. I'm not stupid."

John uttered a big sigh of relief before continuing.

"Then what is going on with you, Sherlock? Just tell me and I'll do whatever I can to help."

"You have to promise me something first."

"Anything." John said.

"No hospitals." Sherlock said, unbuttoning his cuff. A look of confusion crossed John's face.

"No hospitals? What are you talking about?"

"This." Sherlock rolled up his sleeve the rest of the way, showing the gauze bandage that was already starting to show colouring through.

"What happened?" John asked, kneeling in front of Sherlock and taking his arm in his hands.

"I cut it on something when I was searching through a skip last week."

John carefully pulled the tape off one end of the bandage and pulled the gauze back. His face went pale when he saw the wound.

"Sherlock, you have to go to the hospital."

"You promised no hospitals."

"That was before I knew what was wrong. This is seriously infected, Sherlock. It needs stitches and you'll need antibiotics."

"I'm not going to the hospital, John."

John had tapped the bandage back in place and stepped back from Sherlock.

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock? I can't stitch you up here."

"Yes, you can. Will you is the question."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You want me to stitch up your arm … with what? And what about the infection?"

John leaned forward and felt Sherlock's cheek with the back of the palm.

"You've got a fever." he said. "This is only going to get worse, Sherlock, are you're going to get really sick if we don't get it taken care of properly."

"I know." Sherlock said. "And I want you to take care of it here."

John sighed. It was becoming clear that Sherlock was not going to budge on the hospital front. While he really wanted his friend to go straight to St. Bart's, he would rather take care of it himself than have it not taken care of at all.

"Fine, I'll do what I can but if you've still got a fever in a few days, I'm taking you in. I don't care if I have to call an ambulance, Lestrade, and Mycroft, you will go into hospital."

**So, what'd you think? Reviews very much appreciated! **


	2. Pain

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hey everyone! Again, I am blown away by your generosity in reviews and reads! It totally makes me want to write as much as possible. I've been chipping away at this chapter since Monday but late nights can only go so late, I'm afraid. But here it is … you can expect another chapter soon, though! This weekend. At any rate, I hope you enjoy reading me torture poor Sherlock! **

"You know that I have to clean this, right?"

John and Sherlock were now in Sherlock's room. Sherlock was lying on his bed, his right arm extended over a towel. John was wearing a head lamp and gloves, examining the cut more thoroughly.

Sherlock raised his other hand to shield his eyes as John's lamp shone in his eyes.

"Must you wear that? You look ridiculous."

"Yes. I need light to see what I'm doing, unless you prefer I stitch you up in the dark."

"What was wrong with the living room, or even the bathroom?"

"Trust me, when I start stitching, you're going to want to be lying down. This is going to hurt, Sherlock. A lot."

"I don't care. I want you to do it." Sherlock's voice was firm and John sighed, leaning down to look at the cut again.

"Like I said, I need to clean it."

"What are you going to use? I've been using hydrogen peroxide."

"Well, obviously that's not working very well, is it?" John replied. "Since we can't get you on antibiotics to help control the infection once the pus has drained, the wound needs to be cleaned out as best as possible."

"What are you going to use?" Sherlock asked again.

"Rubbing alcohol."

"I thought you were supposed to use saline solution."

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, biting his tongue from saying something very nasty. Rather than get Sherlock mad at him – he couldn't very well leave and he wasn't about to spend the night looking in on someone was angry with him – John took a deep breath before answering.

"Normally, I would but I can't take any chances on not killing the infection. I'll use rubbing alcohol first and then I'll rinse it out with saline. You know, they could do this at the hospital and it would be much less painful, not to mention safer."

"No."

John sighed. He hadn't just been talking about Sherlock's pain, although his pain was going to be much more physical. John had also been talking about his pain – this was not going to be easy on either of them. In the field, John had seen some of the strongest men weep like infants when it came to treatment without pain medication. John shuddered at the memory, realizing he did not want to be responsible for putting Sherlock through that.

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." John said, stripping off his gloves.

"Couldn't if I wanted to." Sherlock muttered under his breath, his eyes slipping closed. Although he would never admit it, he felt rather stupid at this point. If he had just told John about the cut in the first place, he wouldn't be here feeling so sick and about to go through what he knew would be a tremendous amount of pain.

John returned to the bedroom, arms laden with supplies.

"Here." John said, thrusting the thermometer towards Sherlock. "I want to see how far the infection's gotten."

Sherlock accepted the device and slipped it into his mouth, watching John prepare with interest. Sherlock lifted his arm as John laid another couple of towels on Sherlock's bed. On the nightstand he set the rubbing alcohol and a stack of washcloths. John second trip yielded the desk lamp from the living room. He plugged it in and aimed its bright beam onto Sherlock's wound. He left a third time and returned with, on a tray, a basin of warm water, a cup of cool water, the bottle of aspirin, and the turkey baster. The thermometer beeped and John pulled it out of Sherlock's mouth.

"What are you doing with that?" Sherlock asked, a bit of criticism in his voice. John ignored him, setting the thermometer on the night stand.

"John?" Sherlock asked again.

"What?" John looked up from reading the bottle of aspirin. He followed Sherlock's gaze to the turkey baster.

"I don't have any eyedroppers in my kit."

"I have plenty in the kitchen."

"Yes," John said, shaking three pills into his hand. "But they've been heaven-knows-where. At least I know this one is clean and it will work just fine. Here, take these."

Sherlock eyed the pills.

"Sherlock, trust me. Take them." John forced them into Sherlock's hand and handed him the glass of water. Sherlock took a sip before handing the glass back. John did a survey of his layout and realized he had forgotten the gauze. He went to the bathroom and returned with the medical kit, from which he removed a stack of gauze pads.

"Are you ready?" John asked, feeling very nervous suddenly.

"Yes." Sherlock said. John, slipping on a clean pair of gloves, took something from the nightstand that Sherlock had failed to notice.

"Take this." John handed Sherlock the little blue stress ball. Sherlock looked at it.

"It's for the pain."

"It's a psychological trick. It won't work."

"Just hold it. If not for you, for me, okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock said with an eyebrow raised. "Whenever you're ready, Doctor."

John took a deep, rather shaky, breath.

"Alright." John said as he filled the turkey baster with rubbing alcohol. He held the enlarged dropper over Sherlock's wound.  
"You're sure you don't want to go to hospital?"

"John."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. Here we go."

John gently squeezed the end of the turkey baster and watched the shiny drops of rubbing alcohol drip into the wound. John heard Sherlock sharply inhale as the liquid made contact. A quick glance showed the detective biting his lip.

"Okay?"

"Fine. Keep going."

John didn't respond and squeezed again. The liquid came out in a steadier stream, small puddles beginning to form in the wound. Sherlock's muscles had tensed considerably and when John looked up again, Sherlock's eyes were closed and a glance at his hand showed the ball being clenched tightly. John gave the baster one last squeeze before setting it down on the table, being sure to keep the tip from touching the surface.

"Okay, I'm going to try and drain it out a bit." John said, taking one of the strips of gauze. He gently pressed it to the oozing wound and Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.

"Sorry." John said as he lifted the gauze, pleased to see it was draining some of the pus, before folding it over and pressing down again. This time, Sherlock let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a cry. John closed his eyes, willing this all to be over. He didn't want to continue but he knew he had to.

"Do you need a break? We can go slowly, if you want."

Sherlock was biting the inside of his cheek again and without opening his eyes, shook his head.

"Alright, then. I'm going to use more alcohol."

Without waiting for suspense to build, John gave the cut another good dousing with the rubbing alcohol. Sherlock's knuckles were white from clutching the ball so hard. John didn't announce his next step – more gauze. Instead, he focused on getting the job done quickly.

John worked as fast as possible but it was still a good forty-five minutes of rinsing and draining before he felt comfortable moving onto saline.

"You can relax a bit," John said, standing up straight, his spine cracking – his back wasn't used to medicinal demands anymore. Sherlock, by this point, was virtually the same colour as his pillowcase and there were sweat beads forming at his hairline. His breathing was now very rapid. At John's words, Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Are you done?"

"For now." John said, wetting a clean washcloth in the glass of cool water.

"I need to make saline solution, so it'll be a bit before I can continue." John blotted at Sherlock's forehead and then did around his neck. Surprisingly, Sherlock did not push him away.

"Do you wish you had gone to the hospital now?" John asked and Sherlock glared at him.

"It's not professional to say 'I told you so', Doctor." Sherlock answered, putting emphasis on the last word.

"You're right, I'm sorry." John said, going over Sherlock's forehead again. "I'll be right back."

John left and Sherlock could hear the tap in the bathroom running. John returned with a washcloth that was completely dampened. He laid it on the wound.

"Leave that there. I'm going to start boiling some water for the saline."

John left and returned a few moments later with a glass of juice.

"You should drink." he said, holding out the glass. Sherlock turned his face away.

"No, thank you."

"It wasn't a question. Drink." John thrust the glass at the detective, who rolled his eyes but accepted the cup. He finished it and handed it back to John before closing his eyes.

"How do you feel?"

"How do you think I feel?"

"Stupid, I hope." John said, crossing his arms again. "I can't believe you went an entire week without telling me."

"You didn't notice."

"That's not my fault. You should have told me, Sherlock."

"But I didn't." Sherlock opened his eyes a crack. "And now I'm paying for it so we're even."

John softened slightly.

"Try and go to sleep." he said. "I'll wake you when the saline is done."

Sherlock mumbled something along the lines of "okay" and John turned off the light before closing the door. He went into the kitchen and sat down to watch water boil.

**I had a bit of a hard time determining a course of treatment – there's a lot of debate over the use of alcohol anymore, as it does a lot of damage to living cells. However, it was chose mostly because it hurts … and I'm rather mean and think Sherlock deserves to be in pain after doing something so stupid. **

**Also, a question (which I've posed to a few of you in PM's) … do you think Sherlock, when the pain gets greater (i.e. stitches without anaesthetic) that Sherlock would be a vocalizer (swearing, moaning, yelling, ect.), a passer-outer, or silent processer? **

**Reviews are always welcome and appreciated! **


	3. Doctor's Orders

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello again, friends! I have been so blessed to receive such great encouragement from such awesome people. It's totally inspired me to keep going – and you've earned yourself this chapter, plus an extension in the story (after this, it'll be one more chapter and an epilogue). Thank you all for your responses to my questions – I had a great time seeing how you think Sherlock would respond. Anyways. Enough of my rambles. Enjoy! **

"Sherlock?" John blindly stumbled around the dark room, searching for the lamp switch. He found it and turned it on, causing Sherlock to jolt awake in the presence of such a bright light.

"Sorry." John apologized, turning the light away from the bed and setting a glass jar full of water down on the table. "How're you doing?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock said in a monotone voice. John was amazed at how quickly he pulled himself together – forty-five minutes ago he was on the verge of tears due to the level of pain and now he said he was fine. Maybe that was the key, John realized. He _said_ he was okay … that didn't mean he actually was. John reached out a laid a hand on Sherlock's cheek.

"You've still got a fever."

"Obviously. Infections don't clear out that quickly."

John ignored his statement, rooting around for another pair of gloves on the first aid kit. He found them and pulled them on before lifting the washcloth from the large abrasion.

"How does it look?" Sherlock asked.

"Better, although we're not done with it by any means. I'm going to start alternating with rubbing alcohol and saline solution. Hopefully that will drain out what's left and then I'll give it one more good rinse with saline before I try to close it."

Sherlock merely nodded and John took this as his cue to start and repositioned the lamp. Sherlock's eyes followed John's hand as he picked up the turkey baster and let it hover over his arm but Sherlock turned his head before the first drops fell. An overwhelming stinging sensation shot up his arm, so intense it made his arm feel like it had a thousand needles poking into it all at once. Sherlock's other hand squeezed the stress ball tightly. It did very little to help the pain but it took his mind off the horrible feeling in his other arm. Slowly, the burning wore off and Sherlock loosened his grip. He turned his head to see John picking up the jar of saline.

"That's mine." Sherlock said.

"What?" John looked up from what he was doing.

"The pipette. I thought you said you couldn't use my droppers because you didn't know where they'd been."

"I sterilized it." John said, filling it with the clear liquid. "This shouldn't hurt as much as the alcohol."

Sherlock braced for the painful feeling again but John was right. It didn't hurt, exactly, but he was definitely aware of its presence. The sensation reminded him of how, on a hot afternoon, a drink of cold water could be felt slipping down your throat as you swallowed it. Sherlock was so pre-occupied with trying to describe the feeling of saline in the wound that he wasn't watching what John was doing. He let out a hiss when John packed gauze into the cut after irrigating it.  
"Sorry." John said, not sounding sorry at all. "For what it's worth, it's working."

"That's good." Sherlock said in a sarcastic tone.

"Ready for the alcohol again?" John asked once the gauze was removed. Sherlock's face had lost the superiority that he seemed to have gained with his comment. He swallowed hard and nodded.

John repeated the process several times, each time drawing less out of the wound than before. Sherlock carried himself through it alright – squeezing his eyes shut, biting his lip against the pain and then sighing with relief as the saline neutralized the alcohol.

"Alright, this is the last of the rubbing alcohol." John said, filling the turkey baster to capacity. Sherlock didn't say anything but readied himself. He flexed his toes – somehow it made him feel more secure – and waited for the impact. John tried to work quickly but he wanted to be thorough. Instead of squeezing the baster to produce one long stream, John squeezed it in intervals, moving around the cut to get into every section. It was a slow process and the most painful one Sherlock had been through yet. Sherlock tried to distract himself.

Look at the pattern on the ceiling – who was he kidding? There was no pattern on the ceiling, just random stucco and swipes of paint. His eyes wandered to the dresser – tobacco ash was sitting out on it. How could he distinguish between two types of ash that had the same chemical make-up? What about – the pain grew worse in his arm. It mounted, the burning sensation building until his arm felt like it was on fire.

"John." Sherlock mumbled. "John, please stop."

John looked up and saw Sherlock was turning a shade of green which, mixed in with the pale complexion, gave his skin a greyish hue.

"Hang in there, Sherlock. It's almost over." John said as calmly as he could. Inside, his heart was pounding, telling him to stop Sherlock's pain but his medicinal logic knew that he had to finish this round.

"John." Sherlock's words had turned into somewhat of a moan. John was grateful when the turkey baster was empty and the last few drops fell into the wound.

"It's alright, Sherlock. It's all over." John said, quickly putting down the instrument. He re-moistened the face cloth and pressed it against Sherlock's forehead. The cooling effect brought Sherlock around a little and faint colour began returning to his cheeks.

"Are you going to be sick?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock answered, swallowing. "I'll be fine."

"Take deep breaths." John instructed. "With me, in … out. Good, keep going. In … out."

Sherlock mimicked John and his colour began to improve.

"Better?"

"Yes."

"Can I rinse out with the saline now or do you want a minute?"

"Go ahead."

Sherlock welcomed the sensation of water running through the wound – it was calming after the pain of the alcohol. However, his relief was short lived, as soon John was trying to stuff gauze pads into the nooks and crannies of the cut.

"Ow, John! Do you have to do that?" Sherlock exclaimed as he felt John's finger poking around inside the wound.

"Yes, I do. I can't stitch the cut without making sure I get as much secretion out of it as possible."

Sherlock almost gagged when he saw the gauze as John pulled it from the cut. He quickly turned his head, thankful that John had such a strong stomach. Sherlock began counting random objects – the knobs on the dresser, the rings holding the curtains, the number of light bulbs – all in attempts to keep his attention away from what John was doing. At last, John straightened up.

"Finished."

Sherlock turned and saw that the cut looked much better – much less inflamed, although fresh blood was still coming from it, undoubtedly from John's poking around.

"What now?" Sherlock asked, trying to calm his racing heart. John checked his watch.

"I think, for your sake, I'm going to irrigate the wound and pack it. We'll let you sleep for a few hours and then I'll stitch it closed."

"What do you mean 'for my sake'?"

"I want to give you some time to get some rest, first of all. Don't forget that your brilliant idea of hiding this has made you sick."

"Yes, and I'll still be sick after you stitch it closed. I'd rather get it done right away."

"It'll be good for the wound to irrigate a bit before closing it. Plus, I want to wait until I can give you more aspirin to help with the pain."

"I don't need more drugs, John. I'll be fine."

"Sherlock, stitching is going to be a whole other ball game than the hydrogen peroxide, and even worse than the rubbing alcohol. It will be extremely painful."

"I don't care. I want it done now."

John shook his head firmly.

"No. As your doctor, this is my decision and I'm saying that we're going to try and treat your fever with some compresses and you're going to sleep for a minimum of three hours. I can administer more medication in about four. Until then, I want you to rest."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. He hated not being in control, although he had to admit that he certainly felt worn out by his treatment so far, not to mention that he knew John was right. The worst was still yet to come.

"Fine." Sherlock's voice indicated his displeasure but John didn't care – he was just glad that Sherlock agreed. After a quick trip to the loo, John settled Sherlock in his bed, abrasion packed with saline-soaked gauze and wrapped so Sherlock could sleep comfortably. The doctor was pleased to see that, despite his efforts, Sherlock's eyes were slipping closed. He laid a cool compress on his forehead and turned out the light.

**A couple of things to point out:**

**1) A tip for you in you ever don't feel well or in pain – flexing your toes and counting objects are great distractions and they really do help you feel better – believe me, I speak from experience. **

**2) I've gotten a lot of questions about my treatment methods but three seem to be prevalent.**

**a) Why couldn't John give Sherlock stronger antibiotics? I'm pretty sure that in order to administer drugs of that nature, John would need to be associated with a working practice before ordering them … that's my excuse, as least! **

**b) Hydrogen peroxide is as bad as rubbing alcohol? I have never heard this before … hydrogen peroxide never hurts when I use it … but then again, I'm not pouring it onto a huge cut. I based Sherlock's experience on my own with the medicine. Anyone disagree/have experience with this? **

**c) Isn't aspirin a blood thinner? Yes, aspirin does serve to thin the blood, as well as treat pain and fever. I wasn't quite sure what else to use – in Canada, we don't have paracetamol so I'm not entirely sure on its medicinal properties so I went with something I knew, despite its blood-thinning quality. It bothers me slightly but c'est la vie, I suppose. I'll continue to use aspirin in the story simply for continuity sake. **

**3) As I'm writing this, I love torturing Sherlock but I'm rather curious as to opinions if this is accurate. Do you think that rubbing alcohol and such would prompt such extreme pain? What about the stitches – I've only ever had 2 in my entire life and I was numbed for them, but they did hurt afterwards … but I'm also a huge wimp when it comes to pain. I'm interested to see what you think!**

**Alright. I'm finally done now – sorry that was so long! Reviews are very welcome and always appreciated!**


	4. Agony

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**I don't know what it is but I just cannot stop writing this story. It makes me kinda sad because now it's almost over (*hint hint for prompts …*). Anyways, there is still an epilogue but that will probably be at least a few days off. Thanks, as always for the reads and reviews! Enjoy the chapter =) **

John crept into the darkened room two hours later. Sherlock was sound asleep and John watched his breathing, pleased it was steady and his sleep seemed peaceful. The compress, long dried, had fallen off and John pressed his knuckles to Sherlock's forehead. His eyebrows knit together in concern at the temperature Sherlock was still running but Sherlock had been right – infections don't disappear overnight. Still, it was enough to convince John that he should let Sherlock sleep as long as possible. Whenever he woke up, then they would continue. Not that John was anxious to start; he was dreading stitching up Sherlock's arm. It would be painful, more painful than anything Sherlock had felt yet that night.

John left the room and wandered into the kitchen. He had taken the first aid kit from Sherlock's room and he began exploring it, looking for various supplies. He didn't have any proper medical tools for sutures and to his disappointment, the first aid kit wasn't equipped with them, either. This only added to John's nervousness. A plain needle and regular thread for stitches, even while sterilized, would mean a greater margin for error and an increased pain level for Sherlock. John wished desperately to get his hands on some sort of medicine – pain control, numbing, or both – but he knew it would be impossible. Anything of that strength was prescription based and he didn't have the connections to get it before having to perform the procedure.

Knowing that treatment was rather time-sensitive, John set about sterilizing the needle, tweezers, and thread (he used plain black, although he was very tempted to pick hot pink, just to spite Sherlock and punish him for his stupidity, but then John realized that he was paying for it enough as it was) before taking up pacing the flat. It was well into the night now but John couldn't settle. Any time he sat, he fidgeted enough till he was on his feet again. Finally, _finally_, Sherlock's voice carried from the bedroom.

"John?" The voice was weak sounding and John hurried down the hallway. He turned on the bedside lamp.

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked. John checked his watch.

"Two o'clock in the morning. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock, who had been holding his head up, let it fall back on his pillow and he sighed.

"I'm fine, John. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Until I believe it." John said, laying a hand firmly on Sherlock's brow. "I don't like how warm you are."

John reached to the night stand and put the thermometer in Sherlock's mouth. It beeped a moment later and John was not surprised with the number on the screen – not particularly pleased with it, but not surprised in the least.

"Are you going to get started?" Sherlock asked as John studied the electronic display. John looked up at him, eyebrow arched.

"Are you ready?"

"I want it done. There's nothing worse than waiting."

"Alright." John said, putting down the thermometer. "I'll be right back."

John returned with his tray of sterilized instruments, the first-aid kit, and a glass of orange juice. He set the tray down and handed Sherlock the juice, along with the bottle of aspirin.  
"You can take four of them."

Sherlock studied the bottle before opening it and taking out four pills. Wordlessly, he swallowed them back and finished the juice while John pulled in a chair from the kitchen. John was surprised, but pleased, to see Sherlock's accomplishment, although it told him that a) Sherlock was feeling as sick as he looked and b) he knew how much this was going to hurt. John took back the glass and set it on the night stand, switching on the bright desk lamp. Pulling gloves on, John unwrapped Sherlock's wound and pulled out the gauze. He was satisfied with the appearance of the wound and laid Sherlock's arm out before him.

"I'm just going to clean the surrounding skin with alcohol. This shouldn't hurt much." John said, pulling a pre-packaged alcohol wipe from the first aid kit. He opened it and wiped the skin thoroughly, Sherlock not even flinching.

"Okay." John said just for the sake of saying something. Once threaded, John put the needle in his right hand and picked the tweezers up with his left. He took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock.

"Oh, just do it already." Sherlock told him before John had a chance to say anything else.

"You'll let me know if something feels off or if you need a break?"

Though asked as a question, Sherlock didn't respond and John sat, poised to start. Against what was probably his better judgement, he slid the needle into the skin at the top of the wound. Sherlock immediately tensed but John didn't stop, sliding the needle into skin on the other side of the abrasion. As he pulled it tight, Sherlock let out a few choice swear words and John cringed. He finished the stitch and glanced at Sherlock. His face, as suspected, was paler than it had been and he was clenching his teeth with closed eyes. John had to tear his eyes away from his friend, knowing if he looked on much longer, he'd stop and take Sherlock to hospital. Instead, he looked down and slid the needle in for another stitch. Sherlock began breathing loudly through his mouth, every exhale producing a noise that wasn't exactly a cry but also wasn't exactly a moan. All John knew was that it was the worst noise he had ever heard. He quickly finished the second stitch. After making sure Sherlock hadn't passed out, John began the third one. He worked quickly and carefully. After doing ten stitches, John set the instruments on a sterilized plate. He found a fresh washcloth and wet it generously before moping Sherlock's entire face. Sherlock was sweating profusely and his shirt was soaked through. The detective didn't seem to acknowledge the compress and John knew he was on the edge of consciousness.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked loudly, putting his head over Sherlock's so he was the only thing in Sherlock's eye line.

"John." Sherlock's voice was incredibly weak and John, out of instinct, wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist and took his pulse – his heart was racing.

"It's alright, Sherlock." John said soothingly, still wiping his face and neck. "You're doing great."

"It hurts, John." Sherlock's shell seemed to crack and he sounded so child-like, scared and innocent.

"I know, Sherlock. It'll be over soon. Are you dizzy or nauseous?"

Sherlock swallowed and fought to focus his eyes on John's.

"Dizzy."

"That's alright, it's normal. Try not to close your eyes too much – we don't want you to fall asleep and slip into unconsciousness."

"I'll do my best, Doctor." Sherlock gave him a weak smile. "Keep going."

John hesitated for a moment but re-wet the cloth one more time and pressed it firmly onto Sherlock's head before picking up his instruments again. John hated starting again and Sherlock let out a full-blown moan when the needle pierced his skin again. John did his best to ignore it and kept going. Sherlock seemed to have lost all dignity he had and now expressed his pain openly. His free hand had abandoned the stress ball and had curled into a fist, which Sherlock constantly hit the headboard with. He tried to flex his legs and feet, but no longer found comfort in the technique. The world around him swam in and out of focus and Sherlock realized he was crying – there were uncontrolled tears streaming down his face.

"I'm almost done, Sherlock." John said. "Just three more."

Sherlock drew in a shaky breath, feeling his stomach start to rise. So far, he had been successful in fighting the nausea. He forced a swallow and took a deep breath as John finished another suture.

"Two more." John said encouragingly. "Then it'll be over, Sherlock. Just hang in there for another minute or two."

John's words barely registered as Sherlock fought the urge to close his eyes. The edges of his vision were becoming spotty and he blinked hard to keep consciousness.

"Last one, Sherlock."

Sherlock unclenched his hand and rubbed it across his forehead violently, grasping the compress in the process. He felt John tighten the skin and then let out a sigh of relief. It was over.

"Sherlock?"

John was standing over him again, staring concernedly down at him.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

The relief of being done caused Sherlock to lose control over his stomach. He tried to catch his breath but instead started gagging. In a flash, John had slipped his hand behind Sherlock and had him sitting up, causing his vision to be filled with black spots. A basin had appeared out of nowhere and Sherlock vomited until there was nothing left and he was left gagging.

"Alright, it's okay." John said soothingly, helping him lay back again. "You're fine."

"I'm so tired, John." Sherlock mumbled as John eased the compress from his still clenched hand.

"I know, Sherlock." John said. "You can go to sleep in a few minutes, I promise. Can you hold off a few minutes?"

"Yes."

Despite his words, John knew he had to work quickly. Sherlock wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer. Deciding he could wrap the arm once Sherlock was sleeping, John turned his attention to getting Sherlock cleaned up a bit.

"Can you help me get your shirt off?" John asked.

"People will talk." Sherlock muttered breathlessly, but he worked with John to remove one arm followed by his neck. The shirt was carefully removed over the sutures and John tossed it to the floor. With the face cloth, he bathed Sherlock's upper body, wiping away the sweat that had formed. He found a clean t-shirt in Sherlock's dresser and helped him put it on.

"Do you think you can hold down some water?" John asked and Sherlock nodded. John went to the kitchen and returned with a glass. Again, he had to help Sherlock sit up and before the water was gone, he gave Sherlock one more aspirin.

"Can I go to sleep now?"

"Yes, close your eyes. I'm going to work on your arm but it shouldn't hurt that much."

Sherlock's eyes immediately slipped closed and John sat down again. He pulled another alcohol swab from the first aid kit, cleaning the sutures. Sherlock flinched but didn't wake. After the line of stitches was sterile, John taped gauze over it and then used an ace bandage to wrap the arm, just to ensure Sherlock didn't tear the gauze away in his sleep.

John was thankful that it was over but he was exhausted. Working efficiently, he loaded everything but the first aid-kit and the thermometer onto the tray and carried it to the kitchen. He cleaned everything up and brought back a new glass of water for Sherlock, plus the cleaned out bin, just in case he woke up and was thirsty or sick again. John looked at his watch – almost four o'clock. Yawning, he went upstairs and pulled his pillow and duvet off his bed. They trailed behind him as he walked back down the stairs. John fell onto the couch and was asleep within seconds.

**Well, what did you think? I hope this lived up to expectation – I know it's the climax everyone was looking forward to. Reviews are always appreciated and welcome!**

**PS – about the paracetamol, I didn't know it went by Tylenol in North America. I guess I learned something today! And thanks for all the input, stories, and info! It totally helps make me a better writer =) **


	5. Patchwork

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello, my dear friends! Two orders of business. One – THANK YOU so much for all the kind words you've sent on. I get so much joy from reading them and they are a tremendous source of encouragement. Two – I'm SO SORRY that it's been almost a week since an update. My schoolwork just seemed to triple this week and I feel *this close* to a mental burnout. However, writing this was an excellent release and I feel much better. I hope you enjoy the chapter! **

John woke up to the pale light streaming in through the curtains. He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch – almost seven A.M. John sat up slowly, his neck and back feeling very stiff.

"You should've slept upstairs."

John jumped at the voice.

"How long have you been sitting there?" John exclaimed. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, dressed in trouser and shirt, dressing gown draped over his shoulders, and finger tips touching.

"About an hour."

"You should be resting." John said, untangling his feet from the duvet.

"Resting is boring." Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.

"No, resting is for the sick. And you, Sherlock, are sick."

"I'm fine." Sherlock retorted. John was now standing in front of Sherlock, arms folded much like they had been the night before.

"You don't look fine." John pointed out.

"What's the problem?"

"What's the problem?" John exclaimed. "You've got to be kidding me, Sherlock. You left a huge wound untreated for seven days. We spent well over six hours last night getting it cleaned out and sewn up, which, if you recall, was so painful it made you physically sick."

"I'm not physically sick now." Sherlock pointed out. "I even had breakfast."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, I had a cup of tea but it stayed down."

John rolled his eyes.

"Let me see your arm."

Sherlock willingly rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm. John unwrapped the ace bandage and peeled back the gauze.

"How does it look?" Sherlock asked as John leaned in closer to get a better view.

"Good, it looks really good. There shouldn't even be much of a scar."

John let Sherlock's hand go and his arm fell.

"Don't let down your sleeve." John said. "I'm going to change the dressing."

John returned momentarily with some antibiotic ointment and a fresh gauze strip. He quickly applied the ointment and re-wrapped the arm.

"Now do you believe me that I'm fine?" Sherlock asked, buttoning his cuff.

"Not yet." John said. He unearthed the thermometer from his shirt pocket and handed it to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes but silently put the device under his tongue. It beeped a moment later and John glanced at the screen before raising his eyebrow again at Sherlock.

"Oh, come on, John." Sherlock exclaimed. He knew the reading – he had checked when he first woke up. "It's just a low grade fever, nothing to be concerned about. It'll go away on its own."

"That's not the point, Sherlock."

"Then what is?"

"You should be resting. You are ill." John emphasized _resting_ and _ill_, although Sherlock seemed to take no notice.

"When can you take the stitches out?"

"Take the – Sherlock, are you even listening to me? Your body is fighting a war against the infection you practically invited in. Give it something to work with."

"Don't take this the wrong way, John, but you seem much more concerned about my body than I am."

"One of us has to be and it's lucky for you that I'm a doctor."

"I don't have a doctor."

"Well, maybe it's high time you get one. But until then, I'm your doctor and I'm saying you need to rest, at least until your temperature comes into the normal range."

"And what do you suggest I do while my body fights?" Sherlock's voice rang with sarcasm.

"Read a book, watch telly, sleep. I don't care as long as you're not over-exerting yourself."

With that, John walked down the hall to the bathroom while Sherlock made a face at the back of his head.

* * *

Much to Sherlock demise, he followed John's orders, although he started carrying the thermometer with him, checking his temperature whenever John wasn't looking, willing it to go down. While his arm still hurt, it wasn't enough to keep him laid low in his opinion.

Sherlock was in the bathroom one afternoon – two days later, to be specific – and he pulled the thermometer from his mouth.

"John, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, flinging the door open. John looked up from the paper.

"What?"

"It's normal." Sherlock thrust the thermometer into John's hand and started gathering his coat and scarf. He was pulling his arm through the sleeve when he saw John watching him with a suspicious eyebrow raised.

"You don't believe me."

"No."

"Why would I lie about my temperature being normal?

"Why would you hide a huge laceration on your arm?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes before holding out his hand for the thermometer.

"If I do it again, then will you believe me?"

John, in response, handed Sherlock the thermometer. They waited while it took its reading and when it beeped, John glanced at it it. He was relieved to see that Sherlock hadn't been lying. In all honestly, John was as bored as Sherlock was and then some because he had to put up with Sherlock's complaints.

"Good." John said, putting the thermometer on the table and reaching for his coat.

"Where are we going?"

"Bart's. I need a body."

* * *

John, having been wrapped up in a case with Sherlock, didn't talk about taking out the stitches until a week later.

"Sherlock?" John asked, coming into the kitchen. Sherlock was peering into a microscope.

"Sherlock?"

"What?'

"I just realized this morning," John said, taking off his coat. "That your stitches have been in for a week and a half. If it the wound looks good, I can take them out for you."

"That won't be necessary." Sherlock didn't look up from the microscope.

"What do you mean that won't be necessary?" John asked and then his face changed as he realized what Sherlock was implying.

"You seriously did not take them out yourself, did you? Sherlock."

"Relax." Sherlock said, finally prying his eyes away from the apparatus. "The wound was healing nicely. They were annoying me so I took them out. You were right, by the way. There's hardly any scar. You do nice work, John."

"Let me see." John said, ignoring the compliment. Sherlock complied and rolled up his sleeve.

"How did you do it?" John asked, running his finger over the small ridge that formed the scar.

"With tweezers and cuticle scissors. Don't worry," Sherlock added, knowing John's next question. "I cleaned them first."

"When?"

"A week after you put them in."

"Did it hurt?"

John looked up at Sherlock.

"You have no idea. I think it was because you used thread and not silk."

"I'm sorry." John said, backing away. "Maybe this'll be a lesson to you, though. It doesn't hurt to go to hospital sometimes."

"Yes, it does." Sherlock said, before putting his eyes back to the microscope. "You can be my doctor now."

"Excuse me?"

"The morning after you put the stitches in you said I needed to find a doctor. You can be my doctor."

John smiled slightly.

"That's nice and all, Sherlock, but I don't know if that's a good idea."

"As you wish." Sherlock said. "Not that it matters much. I don't get sick."

"No, you just go digging through skips and cut yourself."

"That wasn't my fault and it was worth it, I solved the case."

John merely rolled his eyes, wondering if he would ever understand how Sherlock's mind worked. He knew without really thinking about it that he would never understand but decided that that was probably for the best. He would just continue to be amazed by the thought process and be there to patch up his friend when he fell apart.

**I had a reviewer tell me that they stitched up their own thumb and that using thread made it super painful to take the stitches out. I don't know if this is true but it makes sense to me so I went with it. Also, I had another reviewer tell me that I skipped an important step – debriding the wound. I rather wish I had thought of that – I could've tortured Sherlock more (*another evil laugh*). I may rewrite it one day but I doubt it because it would break the flow of the story, plus have so many prompts to do now! The other thing this reviewer pointed out – which I feel I should emphasize – is that if you are ever unfortunate enough to require stitches, PLEASE don't follow my methods – well, Sherlock and John's methods – but be smart and go to the doctor =) It will hurt way less. **

**Anyways. Reviews are always appreciated!**

**And this is the end of _Tainted_. It's been so great, friends! I thank you again for all the encouragement and it's always sad, I find, finishing such a successful story. However, like I said above, I have a lot of prompts so more will come as soon as possible – when school calms down (or not, you never know!). **

**Thanks again and happy reading and writing,**

**StoryLover18 **


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